BOSTON — As the U.S. Supreme Court prepares to hear arguments on Wednesday over the Trump administration's decision to end Temporary Protected Status for Haitians and Syrians, immigrants from more than a dozen other countries are watching closely. Among them, an estimated 200,000 Salvadorans in the United States hold their breath, fearing their own protections could be next. Temporary Protected Status, or TPS, has allowed these individuals to live and work legally in the U.S. for decades, shielding them from deportation amid unsafe conditions back home.
The Supreme Court case centers on whether the administration adequately considered ongoing dangers in Haiti and Syria before terminating TPS for about 350,000 Haitians and 6,000 Syrians. Critics argue the moves discriminated against non-white immigrants, a claim the court will examine alongside procedural questions. But the ruling could set a precedent affecting TPS holders from nations including El Salvador, Honduras, Venezuela, and others, where renewals loom under the current administration.
For Salvadorans, TPS dates back to 2001, following two devastating earthquakes that killed hundreds and displaced thousands in the Central American country. Since then, extensions have come in 18-month increments, as determined by the Department of Homeland Security secretary. Under President Donald Trump, former Secretary Kristi Noem terminated TPS for all 12 countries up for renewal during her tenure, impacting roughly 1 million people from places like Venezuela, Honduras, Nicaragua, and Afghanistan.
El Salvador's case stands out due to its close ties with the U.S. President Nayib Bukele, a key ally in Trump's orbit, shares a tough stance on crime and security. In 2019, during Trump's first term, Bukele personally requested an extension of TPS, which persisted amid ongoing lawsuits. Yet, with El Salvador's TPS set to expire on Sept. 9, optimism is tempered. "We cannot rely solely on friendly relations," said José Palma, a Salvadoran TPS holder and national coordinator at the National TPS Alliance, an advocacy group battling terminations in federal courts. "Nothing can be guaranteed with this administration in the United States at this moment."
José Urías, 47, embodies the stakes for many Salvadorans. Having crossed the U.S.-Mexico border in 1994, he built a life in Boston from humble beginnings — delivering furniture, washing dishes, and cooking in restaurants. About 18 years ago, he launched a construction company that has built and sold more than 150 homes, employing three people directly and working with seven contractors who hire dozens more. Urías married another Salvadoran TPS beneficiary, and they have two U.S.-born sons: a 19-year-old sophomore at Babson College and a 13-year-old.
His extended family, including 13 siblings, parents, and U.S.-born relatives, all live in the United States, many with permanent legal status. But Urías fears losing everything if TPS ends. "Our life is based here, I have lived more of my life here than in El Salvador," he said in an interview from his Boston home. "It’s like living out your American Dream, and then suddenly — just like that — being told your time is up, as if to say, ‘We don’t need you anymore,’ and having someone try to cut away everything you’ve built."
Despite the uncertainty, Urías clings to hope. "It’s not guaranteed, but it’s not impossible either," he added. Many Salvadorans with TPS have U.S.-citizen children and deep roots, having contributed to communities through jobs, taxes, and businesses. Losing status could mean job losses, detentions, family separations, and deportation to a homeland many left as children or young adults.
The economic ripple effects extend beyond individuals to El Salvador itself. Salvadorans in the U.S. sent $9.9 billion in remittances last year, according to the country's central bank — equivalent to 24% of its gross domestic product. Extending TPS would sustain this vital lifeline, but few expect favors from Trump. Rebecca Bill-Chavez, CEO of the Washington-based Inter-American Dialogue think tank, noted the alliance between Bukele and Trump but cautioned against assumptions. "I don’t think that the fact that Bukele has really delivered on Trump’s priorities necessarily means that Trump will respond to TPS extension requests," she said. "I don’t think there is any guarantee."
Bukele's administration has transformed El Salvador's security landscape. Once one of the world's most violent nations, it now ranks among the safest in the Americas after Bukele's 2022 mass arrest campaign targeting gangs. In April 2025, the U.S. State Department upgraded El Salvador's travel advisory to its highest level, citing sharp declines in violent crimes and murders. This progress has deepened U.S.-El Salvador ties: Secretary of State Marco Rubio's first official trip was to San Salvador, where he secured a deal for the country to accept deportees of any nationality. Just a month later, the U.S. sent hundreds of Venezuelans to a maximum-security prison there.
Trump's approach to TPS echoes his first term, when 17 countries held designations covering 1.3 million people upon his inauguration — a number that more than doubled during President Joe Biden's presidency through new extensions and designations. Venezuelans formed the largest group initially, followed by Haitians and Salvadorans. The current administration's moves to unwind these protections have sparked legal challenges, with the Supreme Court case on Haiti and Syria serving as a bellwether.
Lorena Zepeda, 58, represents another facet of the TPS saga. She crossed into the U.S. from Mexico in 1991, three years after her mother left El Salvador to find work and support her six children. Back home, Zepeda's only job option was sweeping school floors, so she followed, reuniting with her mother in Los Angeles. Over the years, she cooked at schools, worked hotel front desks, cared for the elderly, and now organizes at the Central American Resource Center (CARECEN), one of the nation's largest immigrant-rights groups.
Zepeda married a fellow Salvadoran who recently obtained a green card in February 2025. Their two children — a 22-year-old college graduate son and a 20-year-old daughter studying to be a teacher — live with them. For over three decades, Zepeda has sent $200 to $400 monthly to her sisters in El Salvador. Yet she remains the only family member without permanent status, her asylum application denied in 1999, leaving her with a deportation order. Her permanent residency process is stalled as a result.
If TPS ends, Zepeda would face deportation alone, while her family stays. "I feel quite sad," she said in Spanish. "Sadly, we know that I am not protected, but I have faith in God." Her children have no desire to relocate to El Salvador, underscoring the personal toll of potential policy shifts.
The National TPS Alliance and groups like CARECEN continue advocating through courts and public campaigns, highlighting TPS holders' contributions — from economic to cultural — to the U.S. As the Supreme Court deliberates, the outcome could reshape lives for 1.3 million people or more, depending on how broadly it interprets administrative discretion and fairness in immigration decisions.
Looking ahead, El Salvador's Sept. 9 renewal deadline looms large. While Bukele has not publicly pushed for an extension this time, the stakes are immense. For families like Urías's and Zepeda's, the wait is agonizing, blending years of achievement with the shadow of upheaval. The court's ruling, expected in coming months, will not only address Haiti and Syria but signal the future for TPS nationwide, amid an administration prioritizing border security and alliances abroad.